Cooking Failures

Tag: fiction

  • I Was His Fuhst Cwush

    So, if you just randomly happen to meet me and we strike up a conversation, you might think I sound normal. It depends on what we’re talking about because if the topic has a lot of the letter R in it, then you’ll probably be thinking, “she sounds a little weird.”

    But, I’m also very good at racking my brain to find an alternate word that doesn’t have an R in it, and I will use that one instead. I’m like a walking thesaurus that way. Because unfortunately, I cannot say my R sounds.

    I’ve never been able to say my R sounds. Which is really really unfortunate seeing how my parents named me, Brita Schrager. Could there be any more Rs in that name? Could it be any harder to say? What were they thinking??? Did they hate me and want to ruin my life???  No, they probably just thought I would be able to say the R sound like every other person in the whole wide world!!

    When I was little and I couldn’t say my Rs, in my mind I was saying Brita, but the rest of the world heard Bwita. I remember a good friend kept calling me Bwita and, one day, I got so frustrated and looked at her and screamed, “Why are you calling me Bwita? My name is Bwita!”

    She just kind of looked at me and said, “OK, Bwita,” and then just kept being my best friend.

    I was so thankful when I got married and could finally drop that last name and all its Rs for a name with no Rs in it. It was so nice! Although, there was still that pesky first name that I had to deal with.

    I often practice saying my name out loud because, eventually, I will have to introduce myself to someone. Sometimes I practice just skirting past the R super quickly and other times I practice over pronouncing it. Like, really emphatically. I still haven’t figured out the best method. I still don’t know how to introduce myself. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.  I get all sweaty and nervous when I have to introduce myself like I am about to compete in the Olympics or something. Not that I have ever competed in the Olympics, but I think it would make someone really really nervous.

    It was a good thing once the water filter came out because that’s how people understand my name. I say it and then they say it and sometimes they ask, “like the water filter?”  Phew, then I can relax because now they know my name and will not ask me to repeat it. If I can’t say it right the first time I most likely won’t be able to say it right the second time!

    Sometimes they’re confused and they want me to repeat it, but instead of repeating it and butchering my name again I just say, “like the water filter!” And then there’s often pretty good smiles, and nods because everybody knows the Brita water filter. Or at least they used to. Are they still popular?

    I had a boyfriend in high school who would cut out every Brita water filter ad he saw in magazines or in the newspapers and stuff. I thought it was pretty adorable.

    Recently, I got a message on Facebook from an old friend from elementary school. I don’t think I’ve seen this friend in 20 years. He told me he was going to be in Wilmington for the weekend and, if I still live there, would I like to meet up for brunch? I said absolutely.

    This boy was actually my first crush. It started when I was in third grade. I saw him across the room in music class, and I absolutely fell in third grade love. Ah third grade love is the best! Nothing like real love at all. I think I’ll go searching for some third grade love.

    No, nothing ever came of it though because I was painfully shy all through elementary school and middle school. I couldn’t even talk to a boy. I knew he had a crush on me too, but I guess he was shy also. There was also another girl who kind of claimed him and cornered me in the bathroom and made me promise not to like him. I was scared of confrontation, so I said OK. I guess we will never know what could have been with this third grade love. 

    Anyway, here we are meeting up for brunch more than 40 years later. The conversation starts off all cute and sweet about how we used to have a crush on each other. We were chosen to play Mary and Joseph in the eighth-grade Christmas pageant. It was total honor, not only because they were the best and most-coveted roles, but also because we were both chosen. Like it was meant to be. Except it wasn’t because I was still too shy to talk to him.

    He was talking about how we had to pose for pictures at the end and his hand was on my shoulder. He told me his hand was so sweaty and he was so nervous that I could feel how sweaty his hand was. I, on the other hand, was wondering if my shoulder was too bony. I spent that night in bed rubbing my hand over my shoulder trying to decide if it felt like a regular shoulder or not.

    Eight grade Christmas Pageant. I’m Mary in the center left in the blue dress with my crush, who was Joseph, behind me in the red. He’s all cute and smiley and I look bored to death. Here’s a little trip down memory lane for all you St Anthony friends who read my blog. (Photo was shared by my crush when I told him about the blog)

    Our brunch conversation turned to our lives and college. I was telling him how I majored in communication sciences disorders, which is speech pathology. And he says, totally sincerely, “Oh, did you major in speech pathology because of your own speech impediment?”

    Oh my gosh, I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.

    I said, “NO! But thank you for bringing that up!”

    Then he said. “No problem, Bwita.”

    Then he told me a funny story, but he prefaced it with, “Don’t get mad, OK?”

    First of all, how could I get mad at him? I had a crush on him in third grade, have not seen him in almost 20 years. What could he possibly have done to make me mad? Also, I don’t get mad.

    He said that, recently, he was digitizing his schoolwork (who does that?), and he came across an essay he had written in high school. He was supposed to write a paper about his first crush, and so he wrote about me. And he told me that this is how he described me in his paper,

    She’s cute, and shy, and she can’t say her Rs, like Elmer Fudd. 

    Like Elmer Fudd???? Oh my gosh, I wanted the ground to swallow me up right then! I was so embarrassed! But, also, it was the funniest thing I have heard in a long time.

    Elmer Fudd, patron saint of those who can’t say their R sounds.

    I said, “ I mean….. you didn’t want to leave that part out? Didn’t I have more redeeming qualities? Nothing more memorable?”

    He said, “I said you were cute.”

    Good point. You’re redeemed.

    But, we laughed and laughed. I mean, even with my speech impediment, guys still liked me. Or at least this one did.

    I did have years of speech therapy. Therapists would show me how to position my tongue, and I never could get it right. Why is the R sound so hard? The therapist told my mom to write “USE GOOD R SOUNDS,” on note cards and tape them up all over the house so I would see them and remember to use good R sounds. How is reading a card that says USE GOOD R SOUNDS going to make me use good R sounds? I just can’t say them! Do they think I’ll be speaking and then I’ll see that card and I’ll stop and I’ll twirl and twist my tongue around and I’ll place it right behind my front teeth and I’ll try to say R and it will come out perfectly because I read a stupid card??? There was one taped to the bathroom mirror and I remember being mad at it every time I brushed my teeth.

    My poor little sister has the same speech impediment because she learned to talk by listening to me. I mean, of course there was my older sister and my parents who could say their R sounds, but I was her main playmate.

    I loved playing with my little sister. My mom says she could not wait for me to come home for preschool because then she would just give me the baby and I would just play with her for hours and hours. Mom could get her housework and other stuff done. She said I would easily take care of the baby for her for hours. Mom said that, one day, she left me with the baby for too long and I appeared in the kitchen door holding the baby and said, “Mom, I’m just exhausted. I can’t take care of her anymore.” I was four years old.

    Mom also likes to tell the story about how, when she took my little sister to the doctor, I would shove my mom aside, get right up front and answer all of the doctor’s questions about how she’s eating and sleeping. Mom said it was like I thought I was her mom.

    Very cute and all, but the price my sister paid was that I, accidentally, taught her how to talk. Sorry about that, Alaina. Although she doesn’t have any Rs in her first name so she’s a lot luckier than I am. She still has that terrible last name though. I guess you can’t win them all. Maybe she should just go by her first name like Beyonce or Madonna. Or Prince! Are those even their real first names? 

    For the longest time I thought about changing my first name to something with no Rs in it. It can’t be that hard to change your first name, can it? When I checked into it, it turns out that is very hard to change your first name. And besides, it might offend my parents. I have nothing against my name. It’s actually a very pretty name. I just can’t say it because it has an R in it. At this point, I guess I’ve lived 51 years with this name, so I might as well just keep it.

    When I was at my mom‘s house last year, I found a bunch of old VHS tapes. No one really knew what was on them, so I brought them home. One of them happened to have my practice speech from when I was running for activities chairperson in, I think, eighth grade. When it starts out, I leap into the frame and say, “Hi my name is Bwita and I am running for activities chaiwpuhson.”

    I’ve got some real 80s hair going on there, too. And a hot pink and turquoise 80s outfit. I go on and on and on about all the grand ideas I have if I’m elected activities chaiwpuhson, and then, at the end, (another die of embarrassment moment) I pretend to throw fake candy into the crowd and say, “VOTE FOR BWITA! VOTE FOR BWITA! FOR ACTIVITIES CHAIWPUHSON,” and then I do a little flip thing with my hands.

    GIF from my eighth-grade activities chaiwpuhson campaign.

    Well, can you believe it? I didn’t win! I showed my sister the video after I found it and we were laughing about it and I told her I did not win. She said, “even with the promise of clash day you didn’t win?” And she is right! There is no way I could have lost with the promise of clash day! Was there election interference? Fraud at the polls? Classmates voting illegally?

    Then, I finally figured out what it was.

    I lost because I couldn’t say my Rs. But I didn’t know it then because I thought I could say my Rs!  Nobody wants an activities chaiwpuhson who can’t pronounce their title. I mean, there are actually two Rs in activities chaiwpuhson, so I think one of the qualifications for having that title is being able to pronounce the word. Why didn’t I choose to run for something with no R in it? President? Nope – it has an R. Vice President? Same. Secretary? Ugh! They all have Rs! I mean, actually I probably lost because my ideas sucked, but we’ll just go with I lost because I couldn’t say my Rs.

    But wait!!! I am just realizing and wondering what else I missed out on in life all because I could not pronounce my Rs? Job opportunities? Relationships?

    Oh my gosh! Can I blame everything that’s wrong in my life on my speech impediment? I mean…. It’s wuhth a twy, wight?

  • Bearded Dragon CPR

    I have one of those Google TVs and all of my pictures just slide across the TV. They always make me so nostalgic. How can pictures make your heart break? 

    The other day one splashed across the screen that had my son with a tiny bearded dragon on his chest. Suddenly, I felt regret and loss… and love. I’d almost forgotten about that bearded dragon. Isn’t it funny how time goes by and you forget about things that broke your heart? I guess maybe time does heal all things.

    In my refusal to get my family a dog, I agreed to every other pet under the sun, thinking it would be easier. I never realized a dog would’ve just been easier. But in addition to the fish and the cat and the hamster, we got a bearded dragon. I heard they were relatively easy to take care of but I think they’re a silly pet because you can’t cuddle them. That’s how I feel about fish also.

    Of course, everybody said they would help take care of him when we first got him. There was so much excitement at the beginning. The kids loved going to buy crickets for him and watching him eat crickets. We bought him a little outfits and we even bought a little bearded dragon leash. It was so hard getting it under his little front paws and getting him on the leash that we rarely used it.

    But as things usually go, I’m the only one left taking care of things. And he was relatively easy. If I could remember to feed him. I’m still pretty sure I killed my son’s first hamster because I forgot to feed him. The bearded dragon had one of those mats, so it was relatively easy to clean his cage, but of course I did not do it as often as I should have.

    He was still a lot of work for me and pretty stress inducing since I could never remember to feed him. Who has time in the midst of raising two little boys, working full-time and taking care of a house to remember to go buy crickets for the bearded dragon?

    I would often wake up in the middle of the night and think to myself, “When is the last time anyone fed that bearded dragon?” Meaning me. I was asking myself. No one else would feed the bearded dragon.

    I’d run downstairs at four in the morning to see what kind of fruits or vegetables I could find in the fridge. While he ate them, I promised that little bearded dragon over and over again that, the next day, I would go get him some crickets, if only he would live through the night. And what do you know? Did I keep my promise and remember to get crickets the next day? I’d like to think yes, but I’m not really so sure. 

    Why didn’t I make a list? Or write it on a Post-it note and stick it on the front door? Look at all these brilliant ideas I have after the fact! Yes yes… I realize many people make lists, and the idea is not a new one, but just humor me here. Now that I’m old and forgetful, I realize how much I love lists. You can call me a slow learner. These days I sometimes find myself getting out of bed at 3am to make a list.  

    The whole cricket thing was extremely heartbreaking. Look at these cute little guys leaping for joy all over the place. Not knowing they’re about to be hunted and killed by my bearded dragon. It depressed me every time, but I still did it. I tried making my bearded dragon a strict vegetarian, but after much Googling, I decided he really needed some crickets. The circle of life and all that stuff, but it still felt like murder to me.

    Did it get easier overtime? I think it did. Is it sort of like we become desensitized to all the evil in the world because we are so used to it? 

    And life went on like that. For years. He just became a habit and a routine in my busy life and something to stress about. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the little guy, but I barely had time to wash my hair much less time to bond with the bearded dragon.

    And then he got sick.

    He was lethargic, stopped eating, and I would often find him flipped over on his back at random times during the day. After much Googling again, I learned that it’s really dangerous when that happens. They have no diaphragm and therefore cannot breathe on their backs and it can lead to fatal suffocation. I needed to flip him back over on his belly right away when that happened. At first it happened once or twice a day but then it was happening constantly.

    I would sit vigil all night long by his cage to be there when he flipped on his back so I could flip him back over. I’d sometimes fall asleep with my cheek pressed against a glass of his cage, drool probably dripping down the glass before waking up suddenly and realizing where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. 

    He was so still I was worried he wasn’t breathing. I’d spend hours watching him carefully looking for some sign of breathing. I would poke him a few times just to make sure he was still alive. 

    I found myself researching bearded dragon CPR and believe it or not, there are videos and articles about it. Is that a real thing? Were these joke videos that I was taking seriously? Either way, it gave me great hope that I could save this little guy‘s life if he stopped breathing. I was prepared to do tiny little chest compressions and I practiced them on the hamster. The rescue breaths were the things I was nervous about. Would he bite me? I would have nightmares of doing rescue breaths too strongly and causing his whole little body to explode and his bearded dragon guts flying all over the wall as my kids came down the stairs for school.

    Also, what was my end game going to be with the bearded dragon CPR? Don’t you do it until the EMS arrive and take over? No one would be arriving to take over. Was my plan to just keep performing the CPR for the rest of my life?!? Maybe my brother would switch off with me. 

    This went on for over a week. Forget the housework, the kids, the laundry – my only priority was making sure the bearded dragon was still alive. I was so worried about him. I was so sad that I didn’t love him better. Why does it take tragedies like this for us to love right? Can’t we just get it right from the beginning?

    One day, I could barely tell if he was breathing at all and so I decided I needed to take him somewhere. I called all around, but there are very few vets that take bearded dragons. I found one exotic animal vet out near Carolina Beach. I put the little guy in a shoebox and he sat in the front seat next to me and I played songs that I thought he would like such as Puff the Magic Dragon. I spoke to him the whole way to the vet. Very encouraging things. You can do it! Hang in there! That type of thing. 

    Do bearded dragons understand English? Did he just want me to shut up so he could listen to the music? I thought maybe my voice would soothe him like a little baby inside the womb, but to be honest, he probably didn’t recognize my voice because I did not talk to him enough over the years. But there was a bond there or I wouldn’t have been so distraught. 

    By this point, I was just crying hysterically. And I didn’t stop for over a day… I was so full of sadness,, loss and regret. 

    At the vet, they took him back to do an exam and when they brought him back, they told me that he had caught a virus and it had gone to his heart and his body was just shutting down. There was nothing they could do. They said he was still alive and still breathing and asked me if I would like a few moments with him. I said yes, please. I put that little bearded dragon on my lap, and I cried and cried and cried. I hugged him against my chest (which I had never done before) and told him what a wonderful bearded dragon he was, and I apologized for all the times I forgot to feed him, and I apologized that nobody paid any attention to him most of the time. 

    The nurse kept poking her head in asking if I needed more time and I kept saying yes, and yes, and yes. Why was I all of a sudden so attached to this little guy that I walked by every day and didn’t even give a second glance too? Why don’t we just do a better job when we can? 

    The nurse eventually had to put her foot down and say it was time. One nurse pried the bearded dragon from my hands while the other one held me and I cried and snotted on her shirt. What a weirdly intimate moment at the vet.

    They offered to just dispose of him themselves for $300 or I could take him home with me.  I really did not want to bring a dead bearded dragon back home but I didn’t have an extra $300. What would I even do with it? Bury it in my yard? Let the cat finally eat it? 

    In the end they decided to just take care of it for free for me. At the moment I thought it was the kindest and sweetest thing anyone had ever done for me. Now I think they just wanted to get me out of there ASAP or they were afraid of what I would do with his poor dead body. I wasn’t REALLY going to feed it to my cat. But I was relieved not to have to take the dead body home. 

    I was such a mess they said they would bring my bill into the exam room and show me out the back way so I would not have to walk through the waiting room. 

    Have you ever heard of that? Was that for my benefit? Or for the people in the waiting room’s benefit? Did they think I would be embarrassed? Would I embarrass them? Do people in vet waiting rooms not expect people to be crying hysterically?  

    I paid the bill from the room and they led me out the back. It wasn’t just a hallway and a back door. It was through the staff lunchroom and down creepy dark hallways. If my life was a murder mystery this was the part where they would chloroform me and lock me in the broom closet. But my life is not a murder mystery and they just led me out to the parking lot.

    They said they would call when the footprints are ready. They made a little ornament with the bearded dragon’s paw prints in clay. They were the cutest little paws I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t I admire his cute little paws when he was alive?

    I took myself to a little roof top bar for a glass of wine to drink away my sorrows and also celebrate the sweet little bearded dragon’s life. I was still crying hysterically.

    Some guy came up and asked me if was OK. Maybe he was trying to hit on me? I told him through snot and sobs that my bearded dragon just died. He could not get away from me fast enough. I swear he tripped over a stool running away from me.

    Yes ladies, you are welcome to use my line if you are ever being hit on and you are not interested. It worked extremely well. 

    I missed the bearded dragon so much while I sat there and drank my wine. I wondered if a lot of my sadness was the feeling that I failed. I failed at keeping him alive. We always feel our failures so strongly.

    So, I ordered another glass of wine and really hoped my kids would not want to get a new pet to replace this one.

  • When your ex gets engaged, go buy Champagne

    You see it in the movies. The pretty young girl is going about her business, and then she finds out that (insert big dramatic foreboding music) her EX is ENGAGED. (Put some MORE dramatic music here for effect) The world stops, the world goes dark, the world spins, sometimes the girl even faints. 

    Everything changes. Her attitude, her demeanor, the way her apartment looks. It’s so dramatic in these books and these movies. She lies on her bed and cries for three days. Or something like that.

    I mean, why are women and girls so dramatic about this stuff? My brother and I are currently watching Sex and the City. I think we have run out of shows to watch.  Of course, I watched it when it first came out, but that was before my brother was even born.

    I remember watching it over 25 years ago and just feeling so heartbroken for Carrie. But watching it now I’m like, “what are you doing, Carrie? Just dump Big! He’s terrible for you. He’s just playing with your emotions! You are too good for him!” And also, if you watch the show, there are plenty of rich eligible bachelors in New York City. 

    But seriously, Carrie, why are you SO dramatic about every little thing? You’re crying because he didn’t want to go to dinner with your friends? After he said he would! Who cares? 

    You’re crying because you want to move to Paris to be with him and he says, “don’t move for me?” I get it, 20 years ago, I probably would’ve cried too. 

    I think I had a boyfriend at the time who was very similar to Big. I felt like I was being strung along and that he couldn’t commit and all that heartbreaking stuff. (That’s not really that heartbreaking) But at the time I could totally relate to Carrie. I was living her life. Relationship-wise I mean. Not in the “cute shoes and cute clothes and going out to brunch with your girlfriends everyday” type of life.

    So, when it happens to you, you sort of wonder if you’re supposed to do the same thing. But you don’t really think about it happening to you. Or at least I didn’t.   

    But then it did. On an average Wednesday morning when I’m walking out of Bible study feeling all Zen and peaceful, I get a text from a friend saying she saw something on Facebook.

    I try to be dramatic. I really do! Sometimes I like being dramatic. I think it’s part of being a Pisces. But I excel at it. Sometimes. 

    I try to be that young girl in the Hallmark movies who just crumples into a pile on the street and bawls her eyes out. Strangers walking by asking if they should call 911 or if she needs any help. 

    I try to be that girl who later will comment that she couldn’t remember what happened at that moment because it was all a big blur.

    Should I take the day off? Should I walk along the beach and contemplate how life did not work out how I planned? 

    Should I go to the beach and hurl handfuls of sand into the ocean with tears streaming down my face? That sounds kind of fun actually. Minus the tears. But it also sounds a little cold and messy. There’s lots of options for healing heartache at the beach when you live so close to it. I think there’s probably crying at the beach in some of those movies also.

    Should I be jealous? Should I be angry? Should I punch a wall? Should I cry all day? Should I take a nap? Actually, a nap sounds good on any day. 

    I think I’d be pretty good at throwing myself on the bed and pounding my pillows with my fists. I bet I could even fake cry. All I would have to do is think about that commercial from last night at the Super Bowl, where the little girl lost her dog in the storm, and I can probably really cry. I used a whole box of tissues for that commercial. I should make myself a little note to order more on Amazon. 

    So, I walked around all day not really sure how I felt. I told my friends who, of course asked, “Are you OK?”

    Am I OK? Am I not OK? Am I supposed to be OK? Am I not supposed to be OK?

    Is there anyone else in the world who has a hard time knowing what they feel or am I the only one?

    And how often do we feel what the world tells us to feel even if we don’t really feel that?

    Like when I bought my house, everyone was all like, “Congratulations! You must be so happy!”

    I mean I was, but mostly I was confused and terrified. Did I just buy a house? Did they let me buy a house? Do they know me? Am I responsible enough to own a house? Am I in charge of everything that goes wrong with the house now? I don’t know how to own a house honestly. But also, of course, I was happy. 

    So, it was 8 o’clock on that night that I found out my ex was engaged. I walked around all day trying to figure out how I feel, acting out some of the emotions like I was in one of those movies and my life was completely over because the man of my dreams was going to marry someone else. I always thought I would make a pretty good actress, but I’m painfully shy so that never worked out for me. Maybe I’ll give it a go in my 60s.

    It was cold and it was rainy, but all of a sudden, I knew what to do. I knew the perfect thing to do when your ex gets engaged. I told my brother I was going out and I’d be right back. (Now you have to understand that I would never go out to the store at 8 o’clock at night. I hate going to the store. If I needed toilet paper, I would just cut up T-shirts and use that rather than go out to the store. I hate the store! Read my blog titled The Worst Place on Earth if you haven’t yet so you have a better idea of what I’m talking about)

    But my ex was engaged, so I went to the store to buy a bottle of champagne. When your ex gets engaged, buy some champagne! 

    I was texting my friends (who know me well and were not that surprised at this type of reaction).

    One friend told me to get the most expensive bottle and use the best glasses I have! Yes, I thought! I sent her a picture of me from the grocery store holding a bottle of champagne and she said, “good for you, but that is NOT the good stuff.”

    First of all, it’s Food Lion. Second of all, I don’t know what the good stuff is! I don’t really buy champagne unless it’s for Thanksgiving or Christmas when we make mimosas. And then I just buy the cheapest stuff I can find because, well, we drink a lot of mimosas on the holidays.

    I brought that bottle of champagne home. I got the best glasses I have, which are really not fancy glasses but at least they have stems. I’ve started using stemless wine glasses because really, what is with the stem? How is a big wine glass supposed to stand up on that tiny stem? It’s just asking for a disaster! The proportions are all off! I wonder if whoever invented the wine glass did that on purpose so people would break so many and have to buy so many more?

    My brother and I sat at that kitchen table that rainy night and drank that bottle of champagne out of our glasses with stems. We didn’t even watch TV like we usually do. We just sat and talked. Reminiscing about old times and talking about the future and our life in general. We laughed and laughed.

    I wasn’t “celebrating” that my ex was getting engaged. I wasn’t NOT celebrating my ex getting engaged. I was just celebrating. It’s not even really about him. Except finding out he is engaged gave me the thought to go buy a bottle of champagne. (So, I should probably thank him) 

    What is my other option? Be one of those girls from the movies? It is what it is and it doesn’t change my beautiful sweet little life. Not one bit. It took me eight hours to figure out the answer was to buy champagne. I always knew it deep inside but was so influenced by the movies and the books and those poor heartbroken girls. I wish I could tell them all to go by themselves a bottle of champagne and get over it. But they’re young, and I’m 50. And I like champagne. And I’m smarter than they are.

    So, I think that might be my new solution for anything. Go buy a bottle of champagne and celebrate something. Because there’s always something to celebrate. Unless something breaks in my house. There will be no celebrating then. There will be no champagne then. There will be lots of crying and being dramatic.

    So that’s what I did on that cold rainy day when I found out my ex was engaged. I went and bought a bottle of champagne. And I enjoyed every sip of it.

  • My Biggest Fan

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    There are plenty who pretend to like my cooking. Well, not plenty, maybe one. My brother. I can’t really tell if he pretends to like it, or if he has no taste buds. Either way, there is only one who really likes my cooking. LOVES my cooking. My biggest fan. No matter what I’m making he sits right by me, tail wagging, drool dripping out of his mouth, encouraging me the whole way. I ask him, “Does this look right?” He wags his tail faster and drools harder in response. These are my babies helping me cook.

    My other dog likes my cooking too, but she will sniff it first, she will daintily lick it, she will chew it slowly. But my biggest fan, he’ll gobble it in one bite. I don’t even think he chews it. I don’t even think he smells it. He thinks it is THAT good. He is my biggest cheerleader, my ego booster, my garbage disposal. He is my biggest fan. But my biggest fan is gone. He died today and I think I might just have to give up cooking once and for all. No one will ever love my cooking like he did.

    He was the most disobedient dog you have ever met. He would not listen to a thing you said. With a name like Boss, what did we expect? Boss, go pee! Nothing! Boss, come here! Nothing! Boss, please stay on the dog sheet and off the pillow.  I would wake up the next morning to this…

    We would often tell him he’s not the boss, but he would just give us a look and say, “it’s my name”. He had no ears. They had been clipped lower than anyone had ever seen before. The joke was, he would do a little ear swipe, and say, “I have no ears. I can’t hear you,” with a little dog shrug. Some people might get frustrated with his lack of obedience and his bad listening skills, but we just accepted him for him. Boss the bad listener. That would make a great children’s book.

    He had hip and joint issues from abuse when he was little, and he was such a klutzy dog. He walked with a little limp and always had trouble with stairs and things like getting in the car. One time I built a little garden in the backyard and put chicken wire around. I was sure that it would keep him out of the garden. He couldn’t step over the chicken wire. The next day, though, there he is, inside my garden sleeping on the peppers. We got a bigger, more sturdy fence and put it around. I was sure he could not get over this one. Sure enough, the next day he is in my garden, sitting on my basil.

    My brother asked “is this when we get a bigger fence?” And I said, “no, this is when we give up and let Boss win. If he wants to be in the garden so badly that he will scale fences with his bad hips, we will let him. We are going to kill the plants anyway so now at least we can blame him.” I’m sure you’re not shocked, but the garden did not make it. Of course it was the dog’s fault. Wait – Is that terrible? Blaming a dog when he’ just died? I take it back. Killing gardens has always been my thing. I take full responsibility. He was probably helping by eating all the weeds. My little gardener. I can’t find a picture of him sitting in the garden but here he is helping us make it.


    He was the most beautiful dog ever. Everybody loved him. The sweet little neighbor girl would drop everything when she saw him. She would hop off her bike or her scooter, leave her toys and run to Boss. She would wrap her little body around him and kiss him all over his face. I can still hear her cute little voice saying, “Oh, I love you, Boss.” He would smile wide, loving all the attention.


    He loved everyone. He would walk right up to anyone and let them pet him. He would also get in any car! One time we were walking at this lake by our house and there was a car with the door open because the owner was loading kayaks. Boss jumped right into the open car before we could stop him. He sat down happily on the seat. “Well, I don’t mind if I do! I love car rides,” he said. The owner was shocked and not happy at all. We apologized profusely as we dragged him out of her car. “He is friendly,” we kept saying, like that makes a difference. This woman does not want a random pit-bull in her car even if he is friendly.

    Boss seemed confused. What?!? If you see an open door, take it! When the opportunity arises, jump on it. Or in, in this case. Wise Boss words to live by. I mean unless you are a kid. Don’t get into a stranger’s car if you are a kid. Or if you are an adult even. Ok, maybe not the best Boss advice at all.

    People would stop us on the street and comment on him. Much to the chagrin of our other dog, Leia, who always got ignored. She didn’t mind though. She was happy to give Boss the glory. Maybe she’ll write a book. It’ll be called Living in Boss’ shadow.

    Boss was a bully. A beautiful and sweet bully. He would steal Leia’s toys, treats, food right from her and she would happily let him. She would do anything for Boss. She loved him and he loved her. Even though he pretended he didn’t. He would eye roll at her excessive barking at every person, butterfly or bird that passed our house.

    When we first got Boss he would get up and run to Leia when she would bark out the front window.

    “What?!? What is it?!?? Is everything ok?!? Do you need my muscles?!?!” Boss would ask all worried but ready to save the day.

    “I saw a leaf!” Leia would respond, all proud of herself. Boss would sigh and go back to his spot on the couch. He learned quickly and when Leia would bark, he would lift his head, give me a look, roll his eyes, and go back to sleep. We left Leia to protect the house herself from squirrels, lizards and neighborhood children.

    Leia is not great with other dogs and we always tell her we never thought she’d have a friend. But she had a friend. A best friend. She had a Boss. I’m not sure how she’ll live without him. I’m not sure how any of us will.


    Car rides were his favorite things. He’s an old frail dog but if you said the words car ride he would run into things and knock them over like a bull in a China shop. Or a kid in a mosh pit. He was so excited. We all learned to brace ourselves. Leia especially ducked and moved out of his way. I learned this lesson the hard way when Boss accidentally headbutted me in his excitement and gave me a fat lip.

    He loved to stick his head out the window, his little lip flap flapping in the wind. A look of pure happiness on his face. Dog drool smudging up the car window. I will never wash the drool off my car window. We always said we wished the whole world could be as happy as Boss with his head out the car window. The world would be a much better place if people found joy in small things like sticking their heads out the window. Oh, and pup cups. That guy loved a pup cup.

    He helped me with dishes every night by licking each one clean. He was meticulous about doing the dishes. He takes his job very seriously. Such a big helper. If you like a clean dog slobbery plate. I secretly cleaned them after him when he wasn’t looking but please don’t tell him that. He loves being a helper.

    He would definitely let you know what he wanted. If there was pizza on top of the oven, he would sit right next to the oven, all tall and proud, looking up at the pizza and then back at me, and repeatedly humph until you noticed him. He’d make a little “humph” sound when he wanted your attention. He would do that with treats too. Sit right by the counter where the treats are and humph until you gave him one.

    He would communicate in an almost human-like way. While we sat and ate our dinner, he would lay on the floor and howl and whine and ask for food. It was a back-and-forth conversation. We would tell him that he must wait patiently, and then he would howl at us. We would tell him that we know he wants tacos, but he must wait until we finish ours, and then he would howl back at us. It was a little annoying but also hilarious and now we miss it. Dinners are too quiet. “Don’t eat it all,” he would say. “I just HAVE to have some.”

    At the end of the meals, we make a little plate for him and Leia. He would devour it in two minutes, give me a wink over his shoulder and say, “Delicious! You did it again, mom. You are the BEST cook ever.” And then he would go and eat Leia’s plate. And she would step aside and let him.

    I’ve never loved a dog like I loved Boss. They say there is no love greater than a child and their dog/pet. I disagree and think adult dog love is much stronger. Maybe because as adults we know how hard it is to find true unconditional love.

    Live your life like Boss. Forget the rules. Forget listening to others. Just do what makes you happy. Overcome obstacles to lay on peppers. Find the sunshine. Stick your head out the window every now and then. Humph until you get noticed. And get in a stranger’s car when the opportunity arises. Well, maybe not that one.

  • The Summer I Could Cook

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    About seven years ago, my brother graduated from high school. He lived in Florida and he needed a little change of scenery for the summer. He wanted to get away and get his thoughts together and try to figure out what he was doing with his life. That’s the big question all 18-year-olds have. So, we decided he would come stay with me for the summer. I had a friend who owned an electric company and was looking for workers, so I got him a summer job. The plan was he would come for the summer and then go back to Florida and most likely go to community college there.

    Honestly, I do not remember what I fed my kids before my brother came to stay with me, but it must have been something, right? I mean they are still alive. It might’ve been those Purdue chicken nuggets. They are technically not frozen. They are sort of fresh and refrigerated so they seemed healthier to me. I was also pretty good at making Kraft mac & cheese, and really good at making those Bob Evans microwave mashed potatoes. I think I also excelled at toasting a piece of bread, then putting a slice of super processed American cheese on it and cutting it up in little squares. I think I did try to throw in a piece of fruit and some frozen peas sometimes. It must’ve been something like that.

    But that summer, when my brother was here, I was going to pretend I could cook. Just for the summer. I could fake it for three months. I was excited because I always wanted to be one of those people who cook. Even a fake person who could cook. Maybe after three months of pretending I might really turn into one of those people who can cook. Spoiler alert, I didn’t. But I really did a great job of faking it. Kind of.

    I must first share that my brother has never really had a home-cooked meal. He probably has once or twice when he went to friends’ houses but as far as his own house and growing up, he never had a home-cooked meal. They went out for every single meal. Going out to a restaurant was the norm for him and he was actually quite sick of it.  I already had that going for me because first, he had no idea what a home-cooked meal was or what it was really supposed to taste like so that definitely worked to my advantage. I’m not saying my food would be better than a restaurant but maybe it comes with different expectations. This is not a restaurant! Lower your expectations!

    Another advantage I had was that he liked everything. Everything.  I made lemon chicken that summer that was so sour it made everyone’s face pucker when they tried it.  But not my brother, he ate it and said it was good.  Hey- maybe he doesn’t like everything… Maybe he was just being polite.

    Every meal was so stressful because I had to act like it was simple for me. Faking who you are every day is exhausting.  I had to act like I was easily whipping everything together like Martha Stewart when really I was sweating bullets, trying not to be intimidated by the meat, and just praying that the meal came out edible. I was up late Googling recipes and then reading them over and over and over memorizing them so it would look effortless when I made them. I was also hoping that during this experiment I would find something that my kids would like. That didn’t happen. But the summer went on and I became good at faking I was a person who can cook and I think my brother actually believed me.  Or he’s good at faking it too.

    Time flies as it often does and finally, it was mid-August. My brother was good company, and the kids loved him. I would miss my brother very much BUT I also was a little relieved to be able to go back to being the woman who cannot cook. After much discussion though, it was decided that my brother would not return back to Florida. He would stay here and work and go to the local community college.

    I called my mom to share the news with her, and I was crying hysterically when I told her. She replied, “You love Lucas! You love having him there! Why in the world are you crying?”

    I said, between sniffles and sobs, “Now I’m going to have to pretend to cook forever!”

    But I didn’t. I came clean and told my brother I cannot cook.  Maybe he knew?  I like to think not because I faked it so well.  He didn’t care about my cooking, and I saw that it was silly to try to be something I am not to impress someone.  Yes, I know that is a lesson I should have learned 20 years ago.

    Now, six years since that summer, my brother and I are a cooking failure team.  We have our own little failure club.  Of course, anyone is welcome to join but no one does.  Does anyone really want to be a failure?  He’s my little sous chef and we cook our failures together. We hold our breath in anticipation, watching my kids take the first bite.  After three bites they declare they don’t like it, go back upstairs to play video games, and my brother and I high five and shrug.  We’ll try again tomorrow we say. You can’t win them all.  Or any in this case.